


fury on the tongues of corrupted men, it is in gods that we blame.

by asteriacrows



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Corruption, Dream SMP Festival, Family Dynamics, God! Technoblade, Gods AU, Guilt, Jschlatt Mention, Niki Mention, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Suicidal Ideation, Tubbo Mention, Villain Wilbur Soot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27295159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asteriacrows/pseuds/asteriacrows
Summary: there's an unspoken word in the air. he cannot dare to say it, though he was fully able to. of course he was-- a god of death, of blood, of war, of madness, of fields and swine and fickle things, that is what he was. a god who was a weapon, a terrifying force that tore through mortals without blinking. a god who was never a god of peace, of saving the ones he drove to anarchy.it was not in his nature; it was not in the way his hands took to wielding blades like a fish to water or a farmer to a field, it was not in the way he had painted battlefields a vermilion that dazzled gold in the sun, it was not in the way his voice echoed sanity-forsaken laughter through valleys over the bodies of fragile beings that passed so, so quickly--there's a man before him now, eyes flickering with undying flame, of a desire that wanted what he did-- wanted vengeance, wanted chaos.his thoughts catch up to him, now, and he wonders, silently, something he'd never thought of before, because when you are a god, you care little for consequences:"is it my fault that you have become this?"_dream SMP AU where technoblade is a god of many things, and his attribute of madness tips wilbur off the deep end.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 34
Kudos: 284





	1. guilty are the ones who feed the fire; foolish are the gods that try to be human.

"when the battlefields go quiet, it is the aftermath that leaves them to stumble over the decay."

madness was a feature found often in gods. there were hundreds upon thousands of different kinds; ones of small attributes, of the winter's chill, of the skin of a peeled apple. others of vast things, of concepts crowned by mankind, known by all for better or for worse. of wisdom, of war, of the sea, of storms. there were some that held multiple titles, some that were more human than god, some that were perfect stained glass windows that sliced your hand open on their shards, others the simple brush of a flower petal, wilting slowly in an old forest.

sometimes, tales were told of mortals that became them, and with it, their human corruption. or perhaps the gods themselves had always been corrosive, decaying the strength of mankind on whims of fleeting anger, changing lives in a moment due to a passing thought of approval.

gods were powerful things. powerful, in the eyes of those mortal. powerful, brilliant, blinding in both darkness and in light. they were not to be taken lightly, not to be enraged, not to be careless with.

but they themselves were so, so careless.

he had been summoned to the mortal plane by a former leader and his brother, sent into exile, sent to die. ~~he would have seen them sooner or later, for he was a deity of death.~~ they had become more and more familiar to him, over the weeks; a strange kinship, blooming in the rubble and ruin of a war-torn nation.

the younger was named tommy, an excited young man who darted quickly like the lands were a sandbox for him to play in, until he was gripped by sudden realization of the world, of the misery, of the little negatives that piled and piled like stones upon ancient roads meant to guide the living to the afterlife, upon the bodies sinking back into soil, again and again until you had things like betrayal and stress and loss and insanity. all things he knew well, for he was a god of them. he'd known it, for tommy's eyes had changed over the weeks. they had started frightful, furious, emotional, terrified, a hundred different feelings but now he kept his feelings close to his chest. at least most of the time.

the younger brother's eyes had glazed with a steely determination that the god recognized far too well, but it was one with a thin silver-lining; of hope and of trust in someone far away. of someone who held true to the fact that there was still good in this world, still a single flame flickering in the dark. his voice still spoke loud and brave, still full of that whimsicality that is lost in age, of a boy who was no longer naive and yet still clung to hope, hope, hope, hope--

he was not a god of hope, though perhaps he had been summoned by it.

the older brother was like the sea, calm and composed at shore, a voice careful and calculating. he had been kindhearted, jovial, playful, akin to the bright sun over the vast waters on a clear blue day, and his voice once like tommy's; proud and brave, a leader of a nation that took great happiness in his country. like a stream, to a river, to a lake, to an ocean, the god had watched, a silent observer, as the ice containing a something-gone-unnamed beneath the surface began to crack, a slow and ominous warning as the sound grew louder and louder in the god's ears as time passed. the god wondered, if the surface would shatter first, or would it melt and burn bright in the flames of--

his name was wilbur, and the only light his eyes contained, now, were the sparks of an explosion, waiting waiting waiting to go off.

normally, the god would be delighted to see a mortal under so much pressure, a hair-width away from snapping, like a button under a finger, like a fuse almost up.

but this was...

he'd seen the other's descent into oblivion like a slow spiral lost in charybdis with his own two eyes. so much change, and yet in truth maybe it was so little; the god knew the ice had always been there, hiding away true intentions, keeping safe the deceit and manipulation lurking beneath the surface that had been pulling both the young and old into wars. it had been an especially thick layer, too, frigid water filled with whispered memories and days where the only thing the older brother had worried about was the fun he had when with his friends, in that nation of... "his".

that possessiveness, too, swam beneath the surface of that ice. it was a wonder none of those friends of the older brother had noticed it sooner.

tommy had come to him in the morning dew as the sun was barely rising, knowing that the god rarely slept, if ever. still sleepy and fumbling for words, he had spilled his heart out on the floor before the god, that sliver of young hope still in the way he hugged himself, buried his face in his hands and stared through the gaps of his fingertips, arms covered in bandages from skirmishes from the ones they were at war with.

though the two brothers were alone, the god had noticed faint hearings in the decay of the earth beneath them, of secret meetings and promises to help from dark shadows.

"you're a god, aren't you? c'mon, please just tell me-- will he be okay? will he... will we... will i get to be brothers with him again? will all this--" tommy gestured at the long and dark cavern that came to be called their home, "go back to normal? and we can be... family, again?"

he'd said no words to the younger one that day, as sounds that fell from the mouth of a god could be turned to prophecies in the wrong ears. he had only gazed at the other with a stare stripped clean of any emotion, watched as the younger brother slowly crumpled under the weight of his gaze, water trailing down his cheeks, clear and pure and true, and left with a curse on his tongue and a frustrated noise that went strangled with a hollow misery by the end of it.

his eyes followed the other, and when he turned to look out over the rolling hills and the lands the god of creation had gifted, he found his hands oddly heavy, and his eyes oddly wet.

he was not a god of family, nor of reunions. of the opposite, really.

of isolation, and of lost souls.

the older brother came to him too, at the darkest points of night where the only prying eyes were that of the stars above and the moon's silver shine. seeking solace, seeking comfort, in something that was made of neither of those things. the god had been seated on a cliff-side meadow, overlooking a lake. it was in those moments that the god viewed the final, absolute starlights of humanity remaining in the man.

"...i'm doing the right thing, aren't i? i want my country back... my home, back, and they did not give it to me-- i have every right to take it from them, then, don't i?" wilbur had whispered, voice filled with a longing dangerously bordering the thin thread between himself and the cliff. "tommy... i dragged him into this... and he... i've become an awful brother, haven't i...? you know, i think of you as a brother, too... hahaha, look at me ramble. imagine that, they said, having a god for an ally."

he'd spoken carefully, cautious not to lace his words with a force that could knock the other past that edge, knowing too well what attributes he held, what he was meant to make mortals commit--

_"...he doesn't want to give up on you."_

wilbur had laughed, but it hadn't been genuine. it had been strained, and he heard the desperate banging of an older brother who wanted to keep the younger safe, trapped behind the lock and key of the resolve to blow the unkind world to pieces.

"don't give me that shit. i'm going through with the plan. i'll send them all up in smithereens... whether or not he's with me, i will... i-i'll..."

clear liquid running from dark eyes, eye bags that gave away the utter exhaustion, a soft whimper in the night that the god remembered to forget. the older brother had fallen asleep on his shoulder that night, hiding his humanity in the white furs of the cape of a god, surrounded by the crimson fabric and kept warm for that night alone.

the god watched the moon go down until the sky was an expanse of black, the only light being the flames on the torches of the cave behind them.

there was a human part of the god, too, that wondered if he could have had a family, if only his attributes had not been so...

cruel?

there had been a festival in the country they were at war with, and somehow, his name had been on the winds, and he had been allowed to take part in said festivities there. it was stroke of misfortune after misfortune, of miscommunication and stalling for time that never was enough, and then he'd let his hands be guided by the enemy of the brothers, to slay the dearest friend of the younger one, before his attribute called loud and again he stood over the mangled bodies with the sound of a mad howl echoing through the blood-and-ash-filled streets.

the chaos had been tasty, for the briefest moment-- for the briefest moment he was overjoyed to finally be one in his element again, after walking the thin line of mortal and god with these brothers, so, so very happy to bathe in the blood of the living and restore the power he had given up when they summoned him as their sword, to forget the promises he had made and let the fire burn free as he desired, as his power longed for--

but then the younger one had snapped at him.

so much rage and anger. so much energy and emotion, the first explosion to go off of the two brothers, at least against the god himself. so much love in that one, enough for that friend, that he had cursed his older brother's name, cursed the god, with a genuineness that left even the god unsteady on his feet. his voice, gone was the whimsicality, the pride, the lingering hope. his face, messy with hurriedly wiped away signs of grief, of tears, so incredibly pure that it almost shocked the god.

the god knew well that most miseries of this world were born from love.

on the other hand, the older brother's voice had gone slack with the kind of joy the god knew even more closely-- the joy of a madman, of an artist who had lost his mind, of a leader who led nothing. regret was gone from his tone, as was the hesitation, the sorrow. he had heard the ice shatter loud and clear, and the older brother found delight in making the younger one duel with the god, as a way to get out his unbelievable anger, and the god once again felt the taste of blood, if only for a moment--

after, the younger one had taken his friend, revived by the workings of the world for however briefly, and the friend of the older brother's, threatened with death by the enemy. that same steely determination remained in his gaze, yet this time, alone and standing tall against the tempest of the sea.

the god had stripped hope from tommy's mind.

the cavern ran, long and dark and lonely, and he heard wilbur's laughter, heard his forced joy through the chaos the other preached.

"you know what? i don't care if you're on our ~~my~~ side!" the other had howled, a smile split on his face, eyes gone hollow and empty like the very place they walked in, twirling around and spreading his arms wide like he could fill the space with just himself, only himself, with his own voice, his own form. dancing in the river styx, pretending to be invulnerable to the emotions all mortals held, pretending to be a god that held no qualms over the sequence of events going unbelievably quickly on that day. pretending as if though he had not heard his own brother voice anger against him, and leave him, as all things seemed to do for him.

wilbur had laughed until tears had come to his eyes, tears that contained his inner conflict, tears that held precious, frozen memories, tears that held the hope of an older brother that loved his family with all he had.

and he let them all fall and splash and dissolve, as he grabbed the god by the cape and smiled wide despite them, eyes frantic and frenzied and filled with dying stars, with undying flame, with vengeance, with desire, with--

"so long as you help me do chaos, technoblade!"

it was a tantalizing offer. it was everything the god stood for, everything he, too, had wanted. violence, anarchy, death. everything he was attributed to, everything his powers wielded, everything he was itself.

 _"you're finally speaking the language of the gods, wilbur soot,"_ he had replied with a thin smile, and watched as madness enveloped the other like his own very cape had done that night on the cliff-side. this was his fault. his nature, his presence, it'd pushed the brother over the edge and into the storm of the sea, whirlpool beneath the ice. he had sped up the inevitable, finally had gotten the warped madness that he wanted, needed, from mortals. and yet all he could think of was those tears, both their tears, that he had brought out of them, forced out of them because of his nature, his madness spreading like a plague.

he didn't want to ruin the only family he had ever known, and yet ruin was all he knew--

why was he so, so careless?


	2. the sea and the stars frame the moon, let the blood go unseen in the waves.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there is an achilles' heel to all things, no matter how invulnerable, invincible, unbreakable, unknowable.
> 
> the madness of both mortal and immortal is no exception.

"the undying do not sleep, only in the siren's lament does the hurricane's eye go still."

for a few moments, time was irrelevant. there was only the vast ocean before him and the moon's pallid reflection dotting amongst the waves, stained obsidian by the sky. in that sky, there were hundreds, thousands of stars, filled with the dust of creation, dream-like and unreachable by the ones who walked the paths of this place. 

far away, they were corpses, fiery deaths, dazzling and bright and momentary, countless colors swirling before receding into the darkness of that brilliant sky.

like the shore receding into the waves of the sea. like the flicker of a torch receding into the darkness of an endless cave. like the snow-colored clouds receding into the stormclouds painted and stained with ebony soot. like the shine of sanity receding into the empty gaze of a man who has nothing left to lose but himself.

before they were corpses, though, they were mere tiny lights, twinkling far, far away, forever unattainable by mortals.

the grasses around him were thin and dying. he had never been exactly exceptional at keeping things alive, save for the few farms he'd once toiled mercilessly over. even then, those ones involved death, too. small deaths, exhaustion, obsession, tension, isolation, wearing himself to a shadow merely for victory. he had won, of course. what kind of war god would he be if he had not?

there was the faint swirl of green among the grasses anyways. faint life, still fighting for a chance to survive, as he did. was he fighting? what was he fighting for?

why was he fighting?

first, it had been for the sake of rebellion had it not? war comes from rebellion, from revolution. it was something he loved to instigate, something he loved to drive forward on, filling him with renewed power, renewed strength, as mortals called upon him to give them victory, give them freedom.

then, it had been for the brothers who had, however so briefly, called him "brother", too.

with them he was subdued. only allowed to blaze like a wildfire when called for, only necessary when there was conflict to be resolved. it was always quick. he had not minded it. restraint was a necessary practice in war, though it was not one he particularly assigned himself to. under their orders, he had not been an instigator. he had not been a monster, nor a blood-driven beast.

he had been a guardian.

someone to trust, someone that could protect. something that could shield. something that was more than a blade. something worth more than a god of war, something worth more than ares confined and contained in a vase left to decay, only released when there was blood to be shed.

but now, the younger one, the one that summoned him here, had spurned him. 

he had not known what to do. he knew not of bonds, not of friends, not of family. not of the fierce camaraderie holding the younger one and his dearest friend in a vice grip stronger than even the sturdiest olive tree, who's roots ran centuries long, through stone and ruin and rot. the god had tried, he had, to stall. tried to hold himself in place, tried to give a chance for escape, tried, tried, tried to let it all go without strife as dark whispers drifted to his ears, as the horns of a ram stood silhouetted in the city-lights around him, the shadows edging him on to wield the crossbow he forged, how it burned comfortingly in his hands--

but the scent of ash and gunpowder in the air was compelling, and he was never all that good at restraint.

how beautiful the firework lights were, flashing in the sky, countless nameless colors, blinding, drowning out the faint light of those far away stars, drowning out the stars in the eyes of the living, drowning out that false belief that the stars had ever been there for him.

silently, he let his cool fingertips drag down his face, ice stinging at his own touch, holding the pig's mask in his other hand.

how cold he was, he realized. the reason he so instinctively craved blood, flame, smoke... was it because those things could warm him, however briefly? was it because, as his attributes, those things always warmed him longer than mortal tranquility ever would, because he was a god?

unlucky. gods were meant to be lonely. to be a god of isolation only worsened that.

the night breeze was cold, too. a crisp autumn night, backlit by torches and campfires and the moon. his crown, adorned of shimmering gold and jewels that had no value other than that they were his, glinting from the light sources. his cape, dark scarlet, the color he was so familiar with, lined with fur that had become darker in his time here.

he lifted his hand in front of him, holding it out and stretching his fingers apart. these hands that could wield any weapon that held them, these hands that reaped flickering nightlights with vigor. the moon shone between the gaps of his fingers, light sinking into the thin divets on his hand, scars from the untold number of battles he had carved through with whatever blade was within his reach. he clenched his hand in a fist around the moon, before he released it. it had done much for him, over this eternity unknowing. it had made the ebb and flow of the sea before him, let the blood wash away in waters that could conceal all injury to anything that dared to try and claw apart his inner pieces, while the salt within it all made the wounds etched upon his form flare like an explosion.

soundlessly, he took his crown off his head for a moment and ran his hand through his hair, letting the ribbon holding it in a high ponytail come loose and tangle in his fingers, strands the color of playful hyacinths flowing in the breeze, impairing his vision.

footsteps rustled slow in the grass behind him, his ears picking up the soft echo from the cave before it faded in the clearing on the cliff-side. he had picked up on the change of those footsteps as time went by. at first they had been noisy, rushed, excited and angry. now, they were careful, as if though walking on thin ice, afraid to set anything off; though the only thing that could be set off was the maker of those footsteps himself.

there was only one other person within this place that did not tarnish his name, had still gladly praised it so as long as it still craved chaos, despite calling him "traitor".

there was never a time he had refused chaos.

he wondered, if the other only had not refused him because he was a weapon. a weapon is only as dangerous as its wielder, after all.

he could sense it though, the weight that made the cold air run sparks along his arm. the aura of a plea on a tongue that hesitated to speak; the hesitation should have gone in those fireworks, but it seemed there were still traces.

there's a baited breath behind him, cautious to break the fragile, natural silence that so often held the god now.

"...techno."

he made no response for a moment, noting the hollow and lifeless lilt to the other's tone, before silently moving to press the mask back to his face before the other could view it, before the other could try to pry into the mind of a god. a shift of his neck, and he opened his mouth to speak against that weight in the air, sending ripples through the silence, yet not enough to shatter its atmosphere.

well, for a god of as many attributes as he was, quiet calm wasn't going to last forever. he didn't think that it ever would do that, even if it could. the world was cruel, as was he.

"...hey, wilbur."

a stare settled on the back of his head, eyeing without daring to move for a long while. he did not shift under it, though to be looked upon for so long made his palms itch.

"...your hair is down," the man murmured, more footsteps rustling through the grass as he drew closer to the god, always evaluating, always cunning, always scheming, though that trait was much easier to see in recent times. he huffed in response, stretching his neck to the side and lifting his arms to do the same, feeling the air wrap his form, icy whispers drifting around them.

"thought i'd let the wind brush at it a bit," he mused, voice rolling a bit low. ah, he hadn't spoken to anyone in awhile, "and it's a nice night out for once."

for once, the heavy scent of destruction was absent in the night.

"do gods usually care for nice nights as you do?" the other's voice was ever so slightly mocking, as he seated himself beside the god, leaning back and propping himself on the palms of his hand.

he looked over, eyes narrowed.

it was rare that a mortal looked more exhausted than he did.

wilbur was pale, skin spattered in cinders and soil, decorating along his oak-colored coat. the ends had begun to fray, splashed with old crimson from when he walked through the red-sea streets of that city, from after the god had painted it so. the bags beneath his eyes were darker, deeper than when they had met, almost the color of bruises upon him, or was that the falling ash that followed him like a haunting spirit, now? his loosely-coiled hair seemed duller in color, too, hairs strewn about and framing his wan features. he seemed more sunken, too. the god had made sure that there was always a food supply within their halls-- had the other avoided eating?

was that weariness his fault, too? that he drove all mortals around him to worn husks of what they once were in exchange for the madness to work themself to death for the ideals they desired? wasn't he the one who had gathered more storm clouds to let the other grow wild into a hurricane of a human being?

wilbur's gaze was trained on the moon's reflection over the midnight waters.

"maybe," the god remembered to respond, "it's not often a god of war gets to relax, you know," he hummed quietly, sitting up a bit straighter with the other beside him.

"you look tired," he added on, a bit softer.

he told them he was a god of war, which was not a lie. but it left out all the little specifics that had added upon each other. wilbur gave a snort, a brief flash of the cheerfulness lost in the whirlwind returning. he hadn't seen the other genuinely happy in what felt like ages, yet he knew it was shorter than the eternity he had existed alongside mankind.

"no shit, techno. i don't think 've slept well since i was, you know, exiled."

the god gave a chuckle, letting his eyes fall shut and letting his posture relax just a little. it was nice, to fall back into the calm conversations, pretending as if though their bond hadn't changed from when they first met, pretending they were brothers in arms, and not a man who believed the god he depended on had betrayed him.

"i'd tell ya to rest more," soft sigh. "but that'd sound pretty hypocritical for a god who never sleeps, huh?"

there was a pause. the winds grew stronger, the whispers a bit more noticeable.

before the other's voice was possessed by that hollow lifelessness.

"aren't all gods hypocritical?"

the glint in the other's eyes was like the glint on a polished skull. unsettling. inhuman. it was strange to see it in a mortal, so clearly, too. he took a sharp breath in silence.

"the god of dreams and creation wrecked my own," the other spoke slowly, carefully, testing the waters of his words, his tone almost frighteningly flat, even, "then gave me the equipment necessary to destroy them permanently myself."

thankfully, he was looking over the sea still, and not at--

"...and the god of war and betrayal is my only ally."

he gripped his hand on his cape, fist clenching on the velvet fabric, keeping his vision tracked nervously on all of the other's limbs, other's digits, should he too-swiftly bring a weapon into his hand, should he move too suddenly, too sharply, too quickly. wilbur looked over at him, movement too slow and delayed to be normal, with a pair of wide eyes, abyssal like the entrance to the underworld, like the stone halls of the cavern they still resided in. the other's irises had swirled with carmine, an eerie mirror of his own.

the red gaze of a being filled with madness, but--

"wilbur--" he tried--

"techno," the other cut off, with little regard for whatever comment he would have made anyways, "didn't you mention once that you're a god of death?"

his voice died in his throat as the man lowered his head, soft brown locks covering those empty eyes, silently moving to take off the maroon-colored beanie on his head, holding it in black-gloved, shaking hands, shoulders hunched with a fragile posture.

"would you have been there to... whatever it is death gods do when someone dies, if i had... blown up with... manberg?"

there was a slight struggle in saying the name of the city that no longer belonged to him. distantly, the god heard the faint sound of ice fracturing over the sea, losing itself in the waters and being consumed by an ocean stained black and red by an endless night and the death of--

"would you have... been happy, to see a mortal like me, gone?"

the other exhaled, his breath going misty in the cold, speaking again, the soft undertone of regret had wormed its way back into the other's voice once more, of hesitation. to be truthful, the god knew not whether to be relieved or disappointed in that. it was like walking on a tightrope, and falling down either side spelled nothing but devastation.

the god merely blinked slowly.

"...don't... a-answer that," wilbur spoke again, voice quiet and brittle and so, so frail, like shards of glass scattered about the floor of a church, "please don't answer that, techno, it was... just me wording my thoughts," he repeated, a bit more firmly, again stripping the emotion out of his wavering chords, not daring to lift his head and meet the god's gaze, letting his humanity flow slow and cold. the god's chest felt tight, felt the muscles in his neck tense up as he gave the slight dip of his head as a response. on one hand, if the other had caused the explosion, the surge of absolute carnage that would follow would have only further served to let his attributes run wild. an event of that magnitude; an event of that scale, it would have been beautiful. he can almost imagine the flames running over his hands, the bright, violent sparks lighting the sky, a sun upon the earth, a dying star right there for all of them to see, and he would have relished in the warmth of it all, however fleeting, however temporary, it would have been the closest he had ever been to seeing a star's death.

on the other hand, the man beside him had held the fuse of all that dynamite, and burned his fingertips on every single one to stop it.

to stop himself from being the star that died.

silently, the god placed a hand delicately on the other's shoulder. there was a light flinch, before the other leaned into it. carefully, he reached a little more, and wilbur breathed in weary defeat as he let his head sink slowly, into the ashen-snow white furs of the cape the god wore, resting on the god's shoulder. he shifted a little, to move the fabric of crimson around the other's shoulders, gently surrounding them both in it, and the mortal's shaking hands went to grasp it and tug it around himself, taking in shaky breath after breath and letting his eyelids fall shut. they stayed like that for awhile, both cold in the fallen night, but eventually the sting of icy winds faded in the frail solace of a cape weaved in blood. this was familiar. he had thought the other had let vulnerability burn in the fires of retribution, and yet... mortal lives had always been so easy to shatter.

he was supposed to be a god of chaos, he knew, but this was... he wondered how long he could stay in the eye of the storm, rather than moving like a whiplash in its winds. the waves of the sea were volatile in nature, but for a moment, they were still.

his hand reached to take off his mask again, careful not to disturb the other on his shoulder. cautiously, he smoothed out some of the hairs on the other's face, letting his fingers catch lightly on the dark-hazel strands, training his gaze on the almost-unnatural expression of calm upon the other's face, before turning his gaze back to the last kindnesses of nature left to him. perhaps--

the weakness of insanity was family, and that was why the younger brother had clung so vividly to the concept of nebulous, ephemeral hope.

he was supposed to be a god of madness, too, but he wondered what kind, exactly.

there was only the concealing nature of the pitch-black ocean before him, and the moon still glimmering its mirror image on the waters; the stars framing its lonely travel across the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> people seemed to like the fic, so i made a second chapter that was a bit more personal and less broad, and with slightly more dialogue though it takes a bit.  
> love me my exposition.  
> again, if you liked anything in particular, you know what to do.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! if you liked anything in particular, be sure to comment it. i thrive on validation. just a little drabble about tearing a family apart from the inside.


End file.
